


An Overdue Debt

by mandoinevarro



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, Mentions of Violence, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, soft :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23289814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandoinevarro/pseuds/mandoinevarro
Summary: You're the Mandalorian's most effective stress reliever, but as his problems pile up, he decides to ask you for something more than just sex.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Mando/reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 28
Kudos: 594





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mandoinevarro

The Mandalorian had gotten used to finding you on his cot. On the nights he’d manage to make it back to the ship, after capturing quarry or escaping bounty hunters chasing the child; after making it out of every peril that crossed his path within an inch of his life day after exhausting day, he’d climb the ramp and find you on his cot.  
Usually, by the time the hunter had shut the hull and carbon frozen his bounties, the baby would already be asleep, the ship orderly, and all controls double-checked and ready for takeoff. You were thorough. It seemed to him like you had a sixth sense. From the day he’d hired you, he’d seen you tinkle with every item in the sad collection of the Razor Crest’s old and overused equipment that would’ve fallen apart otherwise. You would oil his gear, check controls, and do any number of things to facilitate the smooth sailing of his ship.

He hadn’t heard the kid cry in weeks. Before the tiny infant could get a chance to work some tears out of his sooty eyes, you were already feeding him, burping him, or providing him with whatever it was that would sooth the surging tantrum immediately. It amazed him how you seemed to be able to fix just about everything you’d touch with those soft little hands of yours. The same hands that he would imagine fondly tracing every dip and scar on his chest and raising goosebumps on his skin, on the days when he’d feel particularly lonely.

Little by little, you’d repaired, oiled, and mended your way into the Mandalorian’s existence, making yourself a crucial part of his everyday life. It only took a couple of weeks for the bounty hunter to realize how essentially fucked he’d be if you ever decided to leave for a more promising and peaceful future than he could ever offer you. Sometimes, he’d study the patched up cables that stuck out of bullet holes on walls and the monitors that had stopped glitching so often ever since you’d focused your attention on them. He would envy the lifeless machinery then, for having the privilege of benefitting from your careful ministrations. The Mandalorian had wondered whether you’d also be willing to offer your healing touch to him, who—as far as you knew from the beskar that covered every inch of his human self and the modulated voice that filtered out all emotional depth—was half a machine himself.

Eventually, he had obtained his answer. 

You’d responded to his mute question after he’d gone back for the kid in Nevarro. The bounty hunter had told you to wait for him on the ship, but hadn’t mentioned his intentions in the gray city. He’d only left you with the ominous instruction to take the Crest and never come back to the planet if he wasn’t back in an hour.  
After three and a half hours of shooting his way out of the contained battle he’d unleashed near the gates of the city, he hadn’t expected to see the Razor Crest unmoving in the darkening horizon, right where he’d left it. He definitely hadn’t expected the rush of relief that made his spine dissolve when he found you still waiting for him once he’d climbed back through the hull—your eyes sunken in their sockets with concern and your lips chaffed from anxious biting—nor the way your gaze softened at the swampy child he knew you’d both learned to love.

You hadn’t asked any questions when you took the baby and carried him to the cockpit to cradle him in your arms. You hadn’t talked to him as, once in hyperspace, you and the Mandalorian had crafted a makeshift crib together for the sleeping kid from a rectangular metal container and some old rags. Adrenaline and urgency still beating like drums in his ears after such a close encounter with death, he hadn’t dared say a word either, out of fear of what he might reveal to you in his delirium.  
But you’d known.

Somehow, among the aftershocks of fighting and below the cluster of stars and supernovas that shifted like snakes in hyperspace, you’d managed to see through the helmet and figure out exactly what he needed, like you’d done so many times with busted motors and faulty sensors. After finishing the crib, you’d taken its unconscious owner down to the hull. The Mandalorian had sentenced himself to his chair to try and still the punchy beating of his heart, that he knew had more to do at this point with the knowledge that you’d put your own life on the line to wait for him than with his altercations in Nevarro.  
But you’d come back.

You’d silently slithered your way back into the cockpit and stood right in front of him with trembling legs, looking for his eyes behind the visor. Wordlessly, you’d unbuckled your belt, slipped your pants down, and climbed onto his lap. His fingers had dug into the leather arms of the chair as you’d started moving on top of him in gentle circles. He remembered blushing at how fast you’d been able to get him hard and how all the blood had dropped from his face to his genitals when you’d lowered his zipper and freed his swollen cock. He remembered the persistent smell that had crawled underneath the helmet when you had shoved your underwear to the side and guided him inside your dripping folds. 

Mando had fucked you then, with quick, hard thrusts and a vice grip on your ass that had most likely left bruises. He’d fucked you every single night that followed, as well. After freezing whatever bounty he would manage to catch and setting coordinates for the Crest’s next destination, he’d descend the ladder to find you. He never needed to tell you a thing, since you would just shove what little clothing was necessary as soon as you’d catch a glimpse of him and present your body to him, to do as he pleased. Night after night, you’d welcome him wet and willing, perched on whatever surface you two would see fit for your fucking. So, after trying the pilot’s chair, the floor, and several storage boxes, he’d gotten used to finding you on his cot. 

Mando knew he was always rough with you. Whether he was coming back from a hunt or from a stakeout, it was always stress, anguish, and burning lust at the mere sight of you that guided his every movement, and they translated to a fistful of your hair or a sudden bump against your cervix. From the first time, he’d lost himself in the dizzying sensation of your slippery walls around him, clenching tighter with every thrust and squeezing every drop of sanity out of him. He’d become addicted to the clammy sound of your cum around his length as he took out all of his frustrations on the stretch of your pussy.

He would only ever take you from behind while you knelt in front of his bunk or against a wall, spilling his seed outside, every time. He’d never actually seen you naked. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about it—the curiosity of how gorgeous you probably looked like with no clothes on haunted his every waking thought—, but he knew it wasn’t part of the unspoken deal you two had struck. Out of pity, he assumed, you’d offered yourself to him as a stress reliever, and nothing more.  
At first, though, Mando had been surprised at how often and loud you’d moan for him; later he’d figured it was just another way you’d though of to please him. The whimpers would float around the recycled air of his empty ship and bounce on his helmet, unable to pierce through the tough beskar. So he would take what he could get and tried his best to shut the desire for a more profound intimacy that he ached for. Until, one day, it could no longer be held back. 

After his clash with Moff Guideon and the army of Imps, it took Mando a few hours to grasp that he had survived. Somehow, hugely outnumbered and wounded, the bounty hunter’s own small army had managed to defeat the enemy troops and get away with the child, not without two losses that still hung too somber on his guts for him to process properly. He sat on his chair with his son resting next to him for hours, watching space break down to pieces from the cockpit. He thought about IG-11, how he’d lifted his helmet and seen his most secret self through red sensors. Mando remembered how much he’d wished for you at that moment, wanting nothing more but to replace the droid’s neutral features with your own lovely ones. He’d known his son was safe and had made peace with his impending death, but he hadn’t been able to shake a feeling of unfulfillment for knowing that he’d never gotten to truly see you or feel you.  
But he had survived.

So Mando sat in the cockpit until he lost track of time, almost hoping that—as always—you’d simply guess what he yearned for and provide it for him. But, eventually, when you didn’t magically appear in front of him like the first time, he knew it was his turn. Nervousness stifling his movements, he climbed clumsily down, stopping every once in a while to reconsider. What if he offended you? He’d never forgive himself if his stupid requests drew you away once and for all. But temptation was gripping his heart hard, and he knew that he’d never know peace again if he didn’t at least try to get this one favor from you.  
When he jumped down the last steps of the ladder, he didn’t find you in his cot. You stood in front of him, as if you’d been waiting. You didn’t push your pants down or move to kneel at the entrance of his bunk like you always did. You simply looked into his visor with a hesitant expression, waiting for him to make a move, for a change.

His voice was tight and unsteady when he finally said, “I want… Can—can I touch you?” He cleared his throat and couldn’t help the telling dip of his helmet as he absorbed your figure in front of him. “I mean really touch you. And…and see you. Please.”

Your shoulders slacked and you moved your head to the side in confusion, like you had been expecting literally anything else. And then, once you saw the way his helmet hung defeated and his hands were clasped in front of him, almost as if he were apologizing for asking, your face went back to its natural comprehensive expression. Except something else was growing in your eyes that made your pupils expand and darken.  
“Yes,” you breathed out, with a begging tone that mimicked Mando’s own. 

Mando’s lungs collapsed at your permission; he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding his breath. He looked around, trying to figure out a way to quickly engineer a surface comfortable enough for you, but you simply sat cross-legged on the floor looking up at him with inviting eyes that got his heart pounding a little faster. So he knelt down in front of you and unclasped his cloak to lay it in next to your legs. It wasn’t ideal nor how he’d imagined it—nothing about this situation was—but he was determined to make you feel as comfortable as he possibly could.

You clutched his pauldrons as leverage and shuffled on your knees to rest them on the worn fabric. You reached down with one hand to remove your shoes and socks, before trailing it upwards to your belly and grabbing the hem of your tunic. Mando quickly caught your wrist.  
“Wait,” he asked, “let me.”  
You simply bit your lower lip and nodded, and Mando liked the way your cheeks turned pink when his gloves grabbed the bottom of your shirt and pulled it up. Every new inch of your skin made it harder for him to keep his hands on the cloth instead of the soft flesh that he was seeing for the first time. When he got your tunic far up enough that it went past your breasts, he had to force himself to keep going, instead of immediately rolling the tips in his fingers. His already half-hard cock twitched at the thought.

By the time your head poked out of the tunic’s hole and he discarded it, his body was burning inside the armor. He trailed his gaze across every crevice of your upper body, stopping at some softer-looking spots he quickly decided were his favorite. You apparently noticed, because the blush on your face was darker than before and it spread to your chest. Mando found your pigmented skin endearing. Maker, after weeks of burying himself inside your most private places, how was it possible that this was the most intimate moment you two had ever shared? And why was he so much more fucking nervous right there than any of the other nights?

He reached his hands out slowly to unbuckle your belt, but looked up at you for permission first. Still biting your lip, you managed a small smile, but your teeth were digging deeper with anticipation that made the gentle expression falter. So he removed your belt and pushed down your pants, taking your underwear with them. You shuffled awkwardly on your knees to slide your them off your legs and would’ve toppled over if he hadn’t grabbed your arms and held you steady. You laughed nervously at your clumsiness and grabbed his arm for balance, as your other hand stretched behind you to pull the trousers off completely and throw them to the side. 

The hand on his arm let go and your back straightened again. And there you were, bare in front of him as he’d asked, your skin covered in goosebumps from the cold air of the ship. Like staring into a mirage, he instinctively grabbed your wrist to make sure you wouldn’t evaporate in front of him. Stars, for all the hours he’d spent mentally sketching a picture of your nude body, he could never have expected this. Mando’s eyes traced the lines of your neck and dropped to a pair of smooth shoulders that he would’ve paid good money to lick. Your heaving chest caught his eye, and he went dizzy with the way your nipples hardened under the attention. He skimmed lower to your belly, and would’ve gladly stayed there if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of something glistening between your thighs. His breath audibly hitched at the modulator when he recognized the clear slick of your arousal.  
Once you understood what the visor was directed at, your shoulders hunched and you shuffled uncomfortably in your place. The movement snapped him out of his trance.

It was Din Djarin who stared straight into your eyes when he finally said with a disbelieving, low voice, “I’m sorry, it’s just…You’re so beautiful.”  
You smiled fully for him then, your lips plump with arousal and your body arching towards him more confidently to try to coax him to reach out.  
“Please,” you pleaded in a raspy tone he’d never heard before, “touch me like you wanted.”

That was all Din needed. His hands approached your body, before he reconsidered and took the gloves off first. Fuck, where to begin? He wanted to feel everything at once, brush his fingertips down your neck and grab your thighs hard and press a hand into your belly. He wanted to grasp your round tits and trace a finger down your spine to make you shiver. Most of all, he wanted to sink his digits into your wet heat and feel you squirm over them.

He settled his hands on your shoulders instead, like you’d done moments ago. The bare-skinned contact made you both tense, until he started caressing up and down your arms to try to relax you. You let out a shaky breath as his calloused hands tickled your skin with a feather light touch.  
It’s smooth,” he mumbled, “your skin. I—I didn’t know.” The helmet was trained on your chest, though, and his hands followed, two large palms settling just above your breasts. Din felt your heart beating faster and faster against his palm to the beat of his own unstable huffs that he knew you could hear. He glided his hands lower, grasping your tits with a strength that painted a stark contrast to his previous, careful fondles. The sensation worked a gasp out of you that pierced beskar and cloth and went straight to his cock. Encouraged, he kneaded the fat and pinched your pebbly peaks, earning him another, louder whimper.  
Fuck, why did it feel that good? Din could already feel his array of problems slipping further and further away at the sensation of your hot skin against his, not to mention the sight of your mouth gaping and your half-hooded eyes. A scent he already knew well crept into his nostrils and settled on his lower half, reminding him of the growing lubrication between your legs.  
He traded your breasts for the curve of your ass and, when he squeezed, he pulled you closer to him, your chest hitting the cool surface of his armor. You yelped at the cold contact, but the surprise turned into pleasure when he started grabbing handfuls of you to press your body tighter against his. His fingers slipped down to the backs of your thighs and sunk on the pillowy flesh between them, making you buckle forward as a reflex and wrap your arms around his neck. The flesh underneath his palm was soaked and boiling, but it wasn’t until he parted your thighs and shoved his metal cuisse between them that he thought you were working up a fever.

Before he could give you any instruction, you buried your head in the crook of his neck and started rubbing your core on his cuisse. It was an awkward angle that only offered so much friction, but the way you moaned for him sounded like it the sensation was melting you. Every desperate little noise was absorbed by his pores and climbed to his head, making him drunk with the knowledge that he could do this to you.  
He needed more. 

“Lay back.” He placed his hands on your hips to stop your grinding. You threw your head back to look into the dark visor, flushed and confused.  
“But—” you started, before Din placed a hand on the small of your back and pushed you with his other one onto the worn cloak. You relented and laid on the floor panting, watching him through long lashes and pressing your legs tightly. Towering over you on his knees, Din grabbed the tops of each thigh and massaged them carefully, both to coax them open and to continue reveling on how your body pulsed alive under his touch. You were writhing and moaning under him, too busy rubbing your legs together to ease some of the throbbing between them to understand what he wanted from you. As much as he enjoyed watching you completely exposed, desperately trying to pleasure yourself, he needed to see. He needed you open to finally take a look at the heat where he’d been losing himself for weeks. 

Din pinned down your ankles to the floor and looked straight to your face.  
“Please, just—just let me see.” He slowly slid your feet towards you, making your knees flex and your legs bend. Back to reality, you swallowed hard and nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see exactly what he’d do.

Din pushed your ankles to the sides, revealing little by little a blushed, pulsating cunt. He only stopped once your legs couldn’t open any wider. Your outer lips were plump and swollen, while your inner folds glistened wet and pink under the artificial light of the ship. Your clit was sticking out completely, imploring to be touched. Din felt something stab his chest. He held his breath and felt his member grow fully erect at the erotic sight.  
Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, “f-fuck, is this what I’ve been missing?” He placed his palms on your inner thighs, where he could feel the warmth radiating from your cunt. “Huh?”  
You furrowed your eyebrows and opened your legs a little wider. “You never touched me,” you whispered, “I thought you didn’t want to.”  
“Maker.” Din’s gaze was trained on your pussy, unblinking. “It’s the only thing I’ve wanted.” When glossy arousal oozed out of you at his admission and pooled on his cloak, Din felt his mouth salivate. He ran his tongue over his lips.  
“Then do it.” You sounded desperate now. 

Din watched you intently—searching for a reaction—when the index and middle finger of his right hand made a V shape over your outer lips, before pressing hard against them. It was difficult for him to decide whether to focus on how your head dropped on the ground and your breath hitched, or how your inner lips spilled outside around his digits and your lower muscles hardened under his touch. The pressure made more of your arousal seep and coat his fingers, as he worked them back and forth over the outside of your core. He knew he was leaking precum but couldn’t bring himself to remove his right hand from your cunt nor his left from your thigh, so he simply pressed his legs together, hoping the sight of you wouldn’t be enough to make him cum. 

You were pushing against his fingers, silently asking for more, and Din was happy to comply. He removed his middle finger as his index brushed your soaked slit from the bottom to the top, stopping right below your clit. Exasperated, you slapped your palms over your eyes.  
“Mando, please,” you whined, “do something. You can’t just—” Your own moan cut you off when he brought down his left hand to pull your inner lips open and gather some more moisture. Fuck, he had a clear view inside you. He could see your innermost walls drowning in their own juices turn a dark pink, almost purple. He used both hands to open you further. Deep inside you, your tight hole clenched around nothing, spitting out more and more fluids.  
Stars, Din didn’t know anyone could get this wet, not even when he used to mindlessly fuck you. His hands were drenched already, but, greedily, he still gathered more slickness and rubbed it on his finger, across his knuckles. He wanted it everywhere. He scooped more and smeared it all over your folds and inner thighs, still avoiding your bundle of nerves. Fascinated by your body and trying to ignore how his cock strained against his pants, he lifted his hands to coat your tits with your own cum.

You were almost crying beneath him, but you seized your opportunity when you felt his wet hands against your chest. Suddenly, you grabbed his wrist and yanked it down, pressing the heel of his hand against your neglected clit. Your eyes closed as a broken sob of relief escaped your throat. You moved your hips against it, using his body for your pleasure as he’d done so many times with yours. Din was delighted.

“Been so good to me for so long,” he muttered, as his other hand creeped stealthily back towards your slit. “I want to pay you back.” The primal sound that left you when he sunk two fingers inside your snug hole made his cock jump and get itself a little wetter than before. He willed himself to ignore it and focus his attention on the long fingers inside you. He pushed them as far as they’d go and them some more, while you were still grinding against his palm.  
Din was sure he was going to black out from lust when you started moving faster and his fingers curled into something that made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. You were breathing quickly, high little mewls leaving your lips as you clenched tighter and tighter around him. His torso leaned down to see how he was stretching you open.  
“B-but I liked it,” you blurted all of a sudden, catching your companion by surprise, “I like it when you f-fuck me—” you groaned when he couldn’t help himself and added another finger, “—when you fuck me angry. When you—when you take it out on me.”

Din didn’t answer. He couldn’t when your words sank deep into his stomach and braided his insides. He only moved his fingers faster and deeper, letting your walls distract him—once again—from the difficulties of his turbulent life, as you pulled tighter around him.

Tighter—tighter—tighter—and—

Din was sure it was your orgasm transferring over to him when you came undone with a loud cry. He didn’t stop moving his hands into you as spasms took over your body, but he felt his own organs contract and release waves of pleasure into every corner of his ragged body. It was only after you stopped shaking and he took his creamy hands away from you that he noticed a dark, moist patch on the crotch of his pants. You noticed it too, and managed a brief, breathy laugh before falling back on the floor, pulling the cloak to cover you and closing your eyes.

Din slapped your leg gently to stop you from falling asleep before standing up.  
“We’re not done yet,” he told you plainly, as you stared at him with confused, tired eyes. “I haven’t tasted you.”  
He clicked a few buttons on his arm, and the hull became pitch black.


	2. Part II

_I haven’t tasted you_

The last embers of the Mandalorian’s words shine weakly, long extinguished by the cool current in the Razor Crest, but alive and playing back again and again and again in your head as they snake into your ears and climb lazily up to your tired psyche. Eyes closed, you unwrap their meaning slowly, word by word, until their underlying implications suddenly drop like rocks on your chest and snap you awake more effectively than Mando’s gentle slap against your leg. The dark is less forgiving when you open your eyes and sit up on the cloak. It only allows you to make out a humanoid outline. The heavy fog of your climax and burning arousal dissipate little by little, letting your senses to crawl back to you, but you’re still dazed and struggle to steady the relentless punching in your chest.

Maker, what did he _do_ to you? Admittedly, you had never really grown accustomed to the Mandalorian’s ardor. Every night he’d come to you in hushed desperation, hard as sin, and in pursuit of physical solace that you were more than happy to provide; and every night he’d break you to pieces with sudden outbursts of pleasure and passion that you didn’t previously know possible. But tonight. Tonight was better. Maybe it was how softly he spoke to you, the reverence with which he explored you, or the airy confessions that you’re only half sure you heard. Regardless of the cause, vitality pumps through your veins and drowns your heart in the certainty that the Mandalorian sees more in you than a simple stress reliever. Although what exactly you are to him, then, you can’t be sure.

_It’s the only thing I’ve wanted._

A shudder runs down your spine when you hear metal clank against the floor. Stars, you wish you could see what he’s doing; what he’s planning for you next. The stain on the front of his pants was hard to miss, so it’s not like he was left unsatisfied. You fumble with the ends of the overused cloth, as you listen carefully to the rustling of fabric.

All he said was that you two weren’t done yet and left you sunken in darkness, shoveling into his words for nuggets of clarification in anticipation and some anxiousness, suddenly feeling a little too naked and squirming at the uncomfortable stickiness of the leftover arousal between your thighs. Suddenly remembering that your employer has now opened you as far as you’ll go, touched you in your most intimate places, heard you moan, pant, and growl his nickname. Only thing missing is…

_I haven´t tasted you._

Somewhere in the gloom a shape straightens and grows bigger and taller and wider as it approaches you, ghost quiet. Towering, it loses some stature as it kneels in front of you. A few quiet seconds pass by, before you feel the feathery touch of naked fingers brushing your eyebrows, tracing the skin like it’s porcelain, and hesitantly resting more of their weight on your face when you don’t pull away. Their rough pads trail down over your eyelids, down your cheeks, rub gentle circles there that make the hair on your arms stand up, and finally settle below the curve of your jaw. Lukewarm, shaky breath blows on your nose as you feel the promise of warmth approach you, and a mouth brushes over your lips. They part slowly for him and Mando’s follow, taking only the edge of your flesh between his lips. And then…and then he only holds there, tense and seemingly afraid to go any further.

It’s…it’s a little awkward. A bit anticlimactic. Mando is not moving and he seems so nervous you fear that if you do he’ll retreat. You can’t even feel the warm puffs on your face anymore. Maker, is he holding his breath? Are _you_? Should you touch him? Should you give him space? You should lean into him. Or maybe you—

He pulls back. In one swift movement, what small semblance of a kiss you shared is gone. Your heart hides in your chest.

“I’m…I’m sorry it’s just…I don’t…” a disembodied voice whispers, as you try to focus on the words and not on the fact that this is the first time you’ve listened to his natural speaking voice. The first time you’re allowed to hear the rough, beautiful baritone. And he’s using it to apologize.

“Hey,” you coo, reaching out with your arms but finding more space between you than you expected, “hey, what is it?” You shift to your knees, dragging the cloak with you as you blindly shuffle forward, until your knee finds foreign flesh that shivers and jerks back before you can feel it properly. “You can tell me.”

A low sigh swims in the dark. “I want…you’re—I just…I just want it to be…to be— _good_.” The low voice in front of you vibrates closer now, but it’s so quiet it might as well be light years away. “You…you always, um, _help_ me and I want…” A pinch in the cloak makes you look down, where you can hear Mando settling his knees. “…want to make you feel as good as you always make me feel.” The contour of his head hangs low.

Maker, how can you tell him? How can you let him know that you’d take him any way he wanted, in any place and time he wished? That you long for whatever closeness his physical and emotional barriers will grant you. That “good” doesn’t even come _close_ to what he offers every time he allows you to feel him, to care for him, even if it’s only in a context of seeking a distraction from his daily perils. Basic lacks the vocabulary to express just how much you yearn for any piece of him he’d be willing to reveal you, that much you know.

Your hands rub the fronts of your thighs, noticing how the skin reacts and prickles at the long silence and the cold. He reminds you of the stray animals that sometimes roam backwater planets; those creatures that flinch and bear teeth at the sweetest of words, too familiar with cruel voices to hear anything but danger in human speech.

Maybe you don’t need to say a word. Maybe you can show him, instead. 

You set your hands forth slowly, aiming for where you think his face is and sucking in a yelp when you feel him grab your wrists abruptly. It’s on instinct, you suppose, but he still holds you there for a quiet moment, not letting you go but not pushing you away either. So you wait, cradling your heart in your hands, holding your breath and wishing he’ll trust you enough to let you talk to him this way. Not a word is uttered, but you hope he can hear you silently echoing the question he asked you earlier. _Can I touch you?_

Little by little, he guides you forward, loosening his grip on your wrists. You extend your fingers, blindingly searching for contact in the artificial midnight of the hull, until they finally meet soft skin. It’s the tiniest brush, but the man inside the Mandalorian gasps and leans his forehead into you, dropping your wrists. _Yes._

His permission pulls your heart out of its hiding place, grants it courage, and sends both of your hands down his face. They meet at the space between his eyebrows, where they feel a light frown, and two fingers skim lower to bend along the arch of a hooked nose. As your other hand falls over closed eyelids, your two fingers reach his cupid’s bow, where warm, rapid exhalations sweep over them. The digits find the plush lips you met earlier, apparently much more relaxed now, because they give as soon as they feel you. The lightheadedness that comes with pushing your fingers into his mouth and having his wet tongue caress them is apparently mutual, because Mando groans deep in his throat and grips your sides to pull you closer. While he eagerly tastes your fingers, your other hand falls to his shoulder, and it’s only then that you realize he’s naked.

“ _Maker_ ,” you think you gasp—maybe. It’s hard to tell when the skin underneath your palm grows progressively warmer the closer it gets to the center of his chest. His fingers dig into your hips and yours climb the steps of his sternum, until the apple of his throat bumps into them in a downward bob. Your palm explores higher, tracing the protruding veins and ligaments as it wraps around a thick neck. Before you can stop yourself, you give it a tiny squeeze that makes Mando growl and suck harder.

_Stars_ , you can’t wait. You pull your fingers out and take his head between your hands, forcing him closer to you until your lips meet.

The kiss is anything but awkward this time. Mando opens his mouth fully for you now, unafraid and too hungry and worked up to be careful with you. He frames your whole face with large palms, holding you steady as he licks the walls of your mouth, demanding and thirsty for every drop of your spit, as you try to keep up with his restless pace. The tip of his tongue trails the edge of your teeth and your head spins, lost in the dark but so, _so_ , at home in the haven of his oven of a mouth. He groans into your throat and drops his hands to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his chest. The skin-to-skin contact of your breasts against his abdomen pulls a moan out of your mouth, makes you rub against him without realizing it, as your nipples catch on the ridges of his skin. His erection presses and pulses against your stomach, as hard and thick as you remember from all those nights of simple, rough fucking. Only now you’re pretty certain it would go inside you with way more ease. You try to stimulate him with stunted up and down movements of your belly, but the very first brush has him groaning and shoving you back to lay down on his cloak.

“Teach me,” he croaks above you, sucking on your lower lip. “Show me how to lo—how to…touch you.” You writhe underneath, feeling how new slickness leaks down your thighs. Stars, a part of you just wants to get up on all fours like always and beg him fuck you or use you or take whatever he wants from you. But you know that is not what he means. And it’s not what the two of you need right now.

Instead, you grab one of the arms framing your head and guide its hand to your chest, where it goes limp and waits for instructions. You guide it down to your breast, where your hand frames the back of his and beckons him to squeeze. He obeys and gasps, pulling the fat a little roughly. Maybe it’s your mewl that encourages him and gives him some initiative, because his fingers drag lower, following the heat. It’s all you can do not to buck your hips when he halts at your mound.

“Lower?” he whispers.

You nod your head frantically, until your remember that you’re both plunged in complete darkness. “Yeah,” you breathe, “yeah, lower. Mando, please.”

Maker, Mando has a good memory. A _marvelous_ one. It only took him touching you once earlier to learn what gets you going. He pleasures you better than you would, thick fingers drawing rings around your bundle of nerves while pushing in and adding more and more pressure with each circle.

“Like this?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious, “This gets you wet?”

“ _Mhmm_.” It makes you more than wet—it gets you soaked. You arch into the touch, wondering if it’s the considerable bigger size of his fingers compared to yours, or the pressure or just the fact that it’s Mando himself who’s so invested in your enjoyment that has you close, _sososo_ close.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ , get on top of me.” The words only register when he pulls his fingers away and chilly air sweeps over your slit. Your attempt to catch your breath and senses is interrupted by the hands on your waist that flip you. And with that quick movement, his waist lays between your wobbly knees, which shift in confusion before Mando is gripping your ass and using it as leverage to move your forward. You’re unsure of where exactly he’s taking you, until he brings you to a stop and repeats, “I want to taste you.”

Trembling thighs framing either side of his face, you reach out blindly and brace yourself against what feels like a storage box. His breath floats up against your wet folds, cooling and heating them at the same time. You squirm at the sensation; whether it’s more arousal or nervousness you can’t be sure. _Stars_ , you’re both so vulnerable like this. You opening and offering yourself to him in a position that you know won’t let you see what he does to you, while he places an invisible, loaded blaster on your hands and pushes it to his temple, trusting you to hover over him, press against his mouth as much or as little as you want, or walk away if you wish. Leave him to the black loneliness of the hull.

Not to mention the blatant obscenity of the position. Maker, where did he learn _this_?

Calloused hands grope around your thighs, up your ass, with caresses that feel starved, as Mando adjusts the height of his head until he’s directly under your slit. His face shifts beneath you and you jump slightly when the end of his nose accidentally brushes your clit. At least you think it was an accident, until you hear a _looong_ inhale.

Mando moans as he smells you, grabbing your hips and pulling you down until his nose nuzzles your inner lips. “S-stars,” he gasps, “ _stars_ you smell…fuck, it—it’s…” He shoves you down on top of him—his nose practically inside you at this point—and starts rubbing the bridge against your folds, up to your clit, and then back down again, breathing in lungfuls of you all the while. Somehow, his moans are louder than your pathetic little whimpers, even though it’s _his_ nose making _you_ see stars.

You rock your hips into the sensation and—Maker, it’s almost _embarrassing_ —you’re pretty sure you’re close to climaxing. A balloon swells in your belly and you don’t want to cum so fast, but you still chase it. You still bear down on him trying to pop that balloon and it feels so good and he keeps groaning and you’re breathing hard—

Suddenly, he pulls away, sucking on the inside of your thigh and sinking his teeth into the flesh before you can complain. “Tell me how,” he reminds you lowly against the space between your thigh and your lips. You whimper at the lack of contact, searching frantically for a clue of what to say, because all you genuinely want is _him_. To please him is to please you, but how are you supposed to—

A light flickers on and illuminates the haze in your brain, reminding you his words; reminding you that _he_ was the one who put you in this position.

“Put your mouth on me,” you pant, white-knuckling the edge of the storage box to try and not plummet on top of Mando at the image of what you just asked.

“Good,” he hums into your cunt, his hands pulling handfuls of your hips like he’s never felt bare skin before. “Fuck, I can tell you’ll taste as good as you smell—better.” The way your chest swells with the most minimal of praises should be a little worrying, you suppose, but it doesn’t matter. Not right now at least, when facial hair scratches your inner thigh and your Mandalorian sucks on one outer lip of your cunt. You both moan in unison: You at the dizzying sensation of his mouth working your swollen heat. He, who knows. Maker, who _knows_ what he’s moaning about, but you’re glad he does, because it sends strong vibrations into your clit that make your eyes roll back.

Without warning, Mando’s hot tongue darts out and presses flat against your folds, licking one wet wide line from the very back of your pussy to your clit, groaning against you the whole time. The muscles in your legs immediately turn to jelly and fall lower against him. Fuck, if you thought his fingers were good, this feels glorious. Thick arousal seeps out of you in concerning amounts, soaking his mouth and chin, and you’re about to apologize when he slurps— _hard_.

Stars, stars, _stars_ , it’s like he’s drinking from you, sliding his tongue against the flow of wetness that he both drains and stimulates out of you as you hold on to the edge of the storage box and frantically search for something to anchor you to sanity. Naturally, you fail, especially when he engulfs your whole clit into his mouth and sucks on it as if his life depended on it.

He sucks away your self-control, your body rebelling against you and deciding it’s as good a time as any to cum on Mando’s face without giving him the courtesy of a heads up first. You stammer through apologies cut off by mewls, cut off by more apologies, but they all eventually distort into sobs when he keeps sucking, licking, tasting. Either he can’t hear you or he’s choosing to ignore you, because his tongue doesn’t relent; if anything, it grows bolder. It takes you a second to catch up and figure out why you again feel on the verge of a climax. When you do, though, the sensitive muscles of your pussy try to jerk away from his mouth, _try_ being the keyword here, because his vicious grip on your hips locks you in place.

“Do it again,” he grunts into the side of your thigh, where he cleans the cum that dripped down with his tongue. You’re on the verge of tears.

“W-what—I c-can’t…”

“You can. J-just— _stars_ —just cum all over my face again, you pretty thing. Let me feel it again.” The torturous stimulation sets a delay on your thoughts, but you’re not too far gone to perceive something desperate in the words. Something wanton and ardent, but secretly heartbreaking that reminds you why you’re here. It’s a plea. 

Taking a few long breaths, you settle back down shaking to grant him access to the crease of your cunt once more. Mando doesn’t waste a second, opening his jaw wide and submerging into you eagerly. Knuckles rigid on the box, you can already sense a scary gravity drawing you lower and deeper into the dreamlike fever of the Mandalorian’s mouth. He uses all of it too, licking long stripes or placing open-mouthed kisses on the swollen flesh. You’re so overworked at this point, that it takes as little as the tip of a finger up your hole to have you cumming again. Tears fall down your face, contorted in a silent frown.

Big hands work as your crutches, running up your back and down to your thighs in an elongated caress that—probably because of your endorphin-induced wishful thinking—you read as pure devotion, far too much for two people who’ve only known each other for a few turbulent months. Those hands holding you dearly paint a stark contrast to Mando’s mouth, which waits patiently for your legs to stop spasming, only to return even more passionately to the shelter of your heat.

— 

Things come back to you slowly after it’s over—after he’s done.

Hands on your lower back. A sweet kiss to your thigh. A shift in gravity. Fabric brushing your skin. A sturdy chest beneath yours. Strong arms that wrap around your middle. The robust smell of sex and sweat, but also soap and trees once you nuzzle your face against a flushed neck.

Mando hugs your exhausted body against his in the dimness, running a hand on your hair before grabbing a fistful and gently bringing it to his face, taking in its scent. Your heart leaps at the gesture. This battle-hardened warrior, this injured soul that’s seen too much and suffered more finds it in himself to hold you carefully with no aim or concern.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs into your hair.

An insolent _I love you_ immediately pops into your head as a reflex, as natural and involuntary as kicking your leg when the right nerve of your knee is hit. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. But, even though the gloom offers a sheltered enough setting for confessions that couldn’t be made under judging light, you still bite your tongue. Instead, your fingers languidly draw a tactile map of your Mandalorian’s face, tracing every dip and small scar, trying to store all the details for when a sun comes up somewhere and the helmet goes back on. Mando hums when you smooth your palm against his cheek and raise your head to press a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth, hoping the message will translate and he’ll understand it in this physical language of yours. _I love you_.

He responds with a kiss to your temple.

Fighting a futile battle against sleep, you wonder what he’s trying to tell you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr: @mandoinevarro


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